


lucky tomato

by sventeen



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: A Hint Of Ibumamo, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sventeen/pseuds/sventeen
Summary: ibuki eats like crap and mamoru takes personal offense (tokoha had to get it from somewhere, right?)





	lucky tomato

**Author's Note:**

> a commission for love-warrior-alice @ tumblr

“Is that really all you’re getting, Ibuki-kun?”

A chance encounter at the supermarket check-out line has Mamoru scrutinizing the contents of Ibuki’s basket– bottled water, a bag of chips, several protein bars, and about a half-dozen varieties of microwave meals.

“Yeah,” Ibuki replies curtly, “is there a problem?”

“Surely, the association pays you enough to eat better than that.”

“This is easier. Besides,” and here, Ibuki’s eyes wander to Mamoru’s own basket, full of fruits and vegetables and cuts of meat and cans of stock and this and that, “what does it matter to you?”

Mamoru furrows his brows. “It might be easy, but it’s definitely not good for you! And it matters to me because I care about you! You need to eat well!” Ibuki’s never heard Mamoru raise his voice like this. Everyone’s looking at them…

“Well…” Ibuki clears his throat. “It’s a nice thought, but I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Mamoru grabs his wrist with his free hand and tugs him in close, as if expecting him to run away. “When’s the next time you’re free?”

Ibuki blinks. “Wednesday.”

“I’m coming over and cooking you a real dinner, so don’t schedule anything, okay?”

There’s a fire in his eyes with which Ibuki can’t even begin to argue.

Wednesday comes around in no time, and Ibuki finds himself wondering if his tiny apartment kitchen is even equipped well enough for someone to cook. He has one single small pot, a rice cooker, a tiny pan that’s only ever seen a few eggs in its life, a spatula, a paring knife, salt and pepper and butter… and really, that’s about it. It’s the bare minimum, and half of it hasn’t seen the light of day in months.

It’s not that Ibuki doesn’t care to learn how to cook, it’s just that his list of priorities since coming around at the Messiah Scramble has consistently contained far more important entries. He doesn’t even have any prior knowledge to fall back on, as everything about his life before they got to it is a mess of blurry memories he can’t quite untangle, and microwaving a TV dinner is a lot easier than digging through the echoes of claws and teeth for something he’s not even sure he’ll find.

There’s finally a knock at the door, and when Ibuki opens it, Mamoru thrusts several bags full of supplies into his arms.

“Take these and set everything out for me. Wash your hands, because you’re helping.”

Ibuki just nods, stepping into the kitchen as Mamoru beelines to the restroom. More than just ingredients, Mamoru packed his own bowls and pans and utensils, apparently prepared for the worst. There’s a large plastic bag of what looks like chopped steak suspended in some brown sauce, onions and broccoli and bok choy and water chestnuts and snow peas and bamboo shoots, honey and sesame oil and garlic, a colander and a pot and a wok, even a bag of rice– definitely prepared for the worst.

As he plays Tetris with the supplies on the counter he now realizes is really, really small, Mamoru comes back out to join him. The first thing Ibuki notices is his hair, pulled back nice and neat, out of his eyes and hopefully out of the food. The second? A cheerful pink apron tied around his waist, patterned like tartan and laced with frills.

“… Is something wrong, Ibuki-kun?”

He only notices he’s staring when the other speaks up, head whipping back around to focus on the ingredients he’s haphazardly stacked by the stove. “No,” he replies stiffly. “Interesting fashion choice.”

Mamoru smiles, fingers ruffling the edges of the fabric. “Tokoha got it for me some time ago. I think she was trying to tease me, but I really like it.”

Ibuki glances back at him before looking away again and scratching his head. “I guess it suits you. It’s bright, and…” Cute. “… yeah.”

“'And yeah?’ I’ll take that as a compliment. Here.” Mamoru pulls a hair tie off his wrist and sets it down on the counter in front of Ibuki. “Tie your hair back.”

There’s a moment of silence as Ibuki studies the tie like he’s never seen one before in his life. Finally, he takes it with a defeated sigh. “How do I do that?”

“You’ve never put your hair up before?”

“If I have, I don’t remember.”

Mamoru plucks the tie from between Ibuki’s fingers and nudges his shoulder, a wordless request to turn around. As they come face to face, Mamoru reaches out with both hands, gathering silver hair behind the other’s head and fixing it into a ponytail.

Unused to having someone else so close, there’s an initial flinch Ibuki just barely manages to hide, but the pads of Mamoru’s thumbs are gentle against his cheeks as he brushes stray strands behind his ears. It’s sort of nice, in a way, and Ibuki’s almost disappointed when he draws back, satisfied with his work.

“Wow, I almost can’t even recognize you like this…”

“Is that good, or bad?”

Mamoru laughs. “Well, you look a lot less gloomy when your hair isn’t all in your face, so I guess it’s good. Let’s get started, now, alright?”

While Mamoru sets the wok up on the stove, Ibuki’s given the herculean task of washing rice. Though he defaults to rummaging through his own pantry for it, Mamoru prods him in the side. “I brought my own for a reason, you know!”

He’s not sure what the difference is, if there even is any– the rice Mamoru’s brought along looks virtually identical to the stuff he already has. Rather than argue or even question his insistence, Ibuki easily complies. Something like this doesn’t even come close to being A Big Deal.

“Three times!” Mamoru declares. “Don’t think you can cut any corners, either!”

Ibuki _hmphs_ as he stirs the rice up with his hands. “What are we even making?”

“Stir-fry!” Here, Mamoru holds up fingers as he lists, “it’s easy, filling, and lasts a while– perfect for you.”

“I see.”

As Ibuki finally finishes and switches on the rice cooker, Mamoru begins chopping vegetables. Ibuki stands at his side, watching him silently. The motion of his hands is fluid and precise, and no movement is wasted. Seeing this, Ibuki’s confident the man could do it in his sleep. It’s mesmerizing.

He’s snapped out of his stare when Mamoru sets a stalk of broccoli and a knife on the counter in front of him. “Here.”

As he starts cutting, Mamoru immediately stops to correct the position of his hands. This becomes a trend with each new ingredient– “Here, you slice these like this.” “This one has to be cut this way first, then this way.” “Tuck your fingers in! Are you trying to cut them off!?” “Dice them a little smaller, otherwise you’ll have entire bites of them at the end.”

Every vegetable has its own rules, and each of those rules apparently has sub-rules. It's a lot more complicated than he’d imagined. Sure, the little veggie piles on Mamoru’s side are formed with an almost mathematical precision, each piece perfectly cut– but in the end, they’ll taste no better or worse than Ibuki’s misshapen lumps of leafy junk, will they?

“This is a lot of effort for something that’s just going to be eaten,” Ibuki says off-handedly.

Mamoru stops cutting. “Just eaten?”

“Is that wrong?”

Slamming the knife down on the counter, Mamoru shoves his face way too close to Ibuki’s for comfort. “Yes!” he cries, “Absolutely! Food is not just eaten! Food is not just food!” Mamoru’s going red in the face, features all twisted in a way that looks alien on him.

Ibuki backs up a step, but Mamoru presses forward that much, practically cornering him in the tiny space. He’s stepped on a sleeping dragon’s tail, and there’s no out.

“Food is art! A meal should be prepared so that every single aspect can be savoured! The presentation is just as important as the taste! Don’t you get it!? Food is an experience!!” Ibuki tries to look anywhere else, but Mamoru grabs his collar and yanks on it, forcing their gazes to meet. “I won’t tolerate any disrespect towards it,” he says, voice low, throat full of fire.

Ibuki’s eyes sting, as though the other had breathed smoke in them, and he reaches up to rub at welling tears with the butt of his palm. “S-Sorry…” he mutters, wincing. “I didn’t know it was that important to you…”

In a flash, Mamoru’s expression softens into one more familiar. “Ibuki-kun, are you…” He lets go of the other and steps back. “Wait, I didn’t mean to raise my voice, I just…”

Now his eyes are starting to water. He’s usually so good at keeping his composure, too, and… god, his eyes really hurt– and what does he keep smelling? It’s like… wait.

Mamoru looks down at the counter. Ibuki’s knife is buried halfway into an onion. He looks back up at Ibuki still rubbing at his face and gasps. “Wait wait wait!! Stop, hold on, don’t do that!!”

What a mess.

A couple hours and only one or two more minor setbacks later, the two of them sit on either side of Ibuki’s coffee table, playing Vanguard and enjoying the fruit of their labour.

“I guess even you have your buttons,” Ibuki finally says.

“Ah… I guess so.”

“You looked pretty silly yelling in that apron, though.”

“Well, in the end, I’d rather look silly than intimidating,” he says with a sheepish grin. “Is the stir-fry okay?”

“It’s good.” He smirks, but there’s something warm about it. “You should be a celebrity chef.”

“Oh, don’t you go teasing me, too…”

Ibuki’s expression widens into a grin, and he laughs– he’s capable of that? “Who said I was teasing?”

Mamoru stares at him like he has two heads before breaking out in a laugh of his own. They laugh together for some time, until Mamoru sighs contentedly and rubs at his face, red again but for an entirely different reason. “Mm… I feel like we’ve learned a lot about each other tonight. Maybe we should do this again some time? You can be my cooking apprentice!”

“Hah. That’s fine. I’ll skip the apron, though.”

“Oh-ho! You can’t get out of it that easily!”

(And the next time Mamoru shows up with bags full of groceries and pots and pans, he’s brought along _two_ frilly aprons.)


End file.
